The Last Innings

There is a cricket ground in our village that looks empty now, though it is never truly silent. If you stand on its edge in the late afternoon, when the sun begins to drown itself in the horizon, you can almost hear echoes of the past—the crack of the bat, the laughter of boys, the urgent shouts of fielders chasing a red tennis ball across the dusty earth.

But most of all, you hear one voice, clear above the rest: the captain’s voice.

That was you.

I was just another boy with a bat when you chose me to open for your team. My hands trembled the first time you handed me the bat and said, “Go on. Face the first ball. Play like you belong here.” Nobody had trusted me like that before. My own heart didn’t trust me. But you did. And from that day forward, I wasn’t just a boy—I was your opener.

You see, that’s what you always did. You lifted others. You made us believe. And because of you, a handful of boys in a forgotten village felt like they were part of something bigger than themselves. For us, cricket wasn’t just a game. It was our world, our proof that we mattered.

I can still remember that last match we played together. The ground was crowded, the villagers leaning on their bicycles and chatting as if the whole day had paused for our little contest. You tossed the coin, shook hands with the rival captain, and walked back with that half-smile you always wore when you had already decided we would win.

I padded up nervously, adjusting my grip on the bat. You clapped me on the shoulder. “First ball, play straight. Second ball, go for it. You’ve got this.”

I still hear your words. I still feel the strength in your hand on my shoulder. And when the bowler came charging in, when the ball spun toward me, I swung, and it raced past mid-on for four. The crowd roared. I turned back instinctively, and you were there, smiling—not jumping, not shouting—just smiling, calm and proud, like a captain who had always known the outcome.

That day we won, and the whole village carried us on their shoulders. But victory wasn’t what stayed with me. It was that moment—the smile of a captain who trusted his batsman.

Then time shifted the field. Life bowled a faster ball than any of us could face.

You left the village soon after, chasing not runs but riyals, working in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, carrying the weight of family expectations, trading cricket whites for overalls and a helmet. You left with a promise that one day we would play again, in some bigger city, maybe even for some bigger team. We laughed about it then, as if the world was waiting for us.

But days turned into months, months into years. And the ground in our village grew quiet. The boys found jobs, some left for the city, others lost their will to play. The bamboo stumps rotted in the rain. The dust covered our footprints. And the echoes of our shouts began to fade.

I still play sometimes, when the village boys ask me to. I walk to the crease and grip the bat. But it is never the same. Because no one shouts from behind the stumps, “Stay there, opener. I’ve got you covered.” No one sets the field with the certainty that you did. The game is the same, but the heart of it is gone.

Sometimes, late at night, I scroll through our old photographs. There you are—lean, tanned, grinning, the captain’s band tied around your arm. And here I am, bat in hand, looking at you for guidance. The world may see just two boys in a picture. But I see a whole lifetime compressed into one frame: trust, friendship, dreams.

I wonder if you ever miss it. I wonder if, after a long shift under the scorching KSA sun, you close your eyes and hear the sound of bat on ball, the cheers, the laughter. Do you see the dusty field where you were king, where your word carried more weight than the umpire’s? Do you remember your team, your opener, your dream?

Because I remember.

And sometimes I wish I could turn back the years, walk out on that ground again with you tossing the ball in your hand, shouting instructions, smiling at me like I was the only batsman in the world who mattered.

But wishes are not innings. They don’t get played.

All I have is this empty ground, a bat that feels heavier than it used to, and the echo of your voice across time and distance. The game never ended, captain. It only paused, waiting for you. And yet I know, deep down, that the last match we played together was the final one. That was our victory, our memory, our legend.

Now the rest of life feels like the unfinished overs of a match that will never be completed.

And so, my captain, this is my truth: the scoreboard is blank, the stumps are gone, but you remain. Not just in photographs, not just in memory—but in every shot I play, every ball I face, every time I dare to stand at the crease, trembling but trying.

For you gave me the opening.

And I am still playing it, even in your absence.